


Round and Round the Garden

by WriterX



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, Cookies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Headcanon, Kid Fic, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, Nursery Rhymes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:43:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterX/pseuds/WriterX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, hell! What does that matter?! So we go around the sun! If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round and Round the Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small idea of my headcanon as to why Sherlock knows the "Round and round the garden like a teddy bear" nursery rhyme.
> 
> Russian Translation: [http://ficbook.net/readfic/1075323]

“Sherlock, honey, what’s wrong?”

The eight-year-old boy hears his Mummy’s voice from the kitchen after he had slammed the front door shut. He grumbles, holding a stiff upper lip as he trudges into the kitchen, dumping his schoolbag on the floor. Mrs. Holmes glances toward her son, removing gloves from her hands as she shuts the oven door, the warm smell of chocolate permeating the room.

She raises a dainty eyebrow at her son, placing her oven mittens on the counter, watching as Sherlock clambers up on the kitchen stool. He’s a bit small for his age, but she’s sure that he’ll sprout up in his late teens just like his father had before him. Sherlock averts his eyes, lips tugged downwards in a frown, and Mrs. Holmes sees the cut along her son’s cheek.

“Sherlock,” She starts, and the boy huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes cast towards the ground. “I don’t want to talk about it Mummy.”

Mrs. Holmes fixes the pearls around her neck, her thin fingers brushing down the hem of her dress, before she walks over to her son and sits on the seat beside him. She slides her chair next to him, gently pulling Sherlock into her lap – knowing that his encounter must have been bad this time by the way the boy crawls into her lap without a word, his small fingers gripping at the cloth of the back of her dress.

His head rests on her chest, and his eyes close, shutting blue out from the world for a moment as he listens to his Mummy’s heartbeat, the vile words of the bullies assaulting the ears of his memory.

_Freak._

_Weirdo._

_No one even likes you._

_Aw, is he crying?_

_Are you a crybaby?_

_Run home and cry to Mummy, you freak._

“Where’s Mycroft?” Mrs. Holmes asks softly, her fingernails tracing a dainty pattern against Sherlock’s back, comforting her son with the gentle touch.

“He went off to Greg’s house.” Sherlock mumbles into his Mummy’s chest, sniffling – but not crying. No, he won’t cry. He’s not a crybaby. But the warmth of her touch spreads a soothing salve over the wounds of his heart.

Mrs. Holmes pries her son off her chest, her fingers cupping his face in his chest. “Honey, do you remember what I told you about bullies?”

He nods his head, large blue eyes focused on his Mummy’s warm gaze. “That they’re just jealous of how smart I am.” She smiles brightly at him, leaning close to press a soft Mother’s kiss to his forehead. “Precisely.”

“Here, I know what will cheer you up.” Mrs. Holmes smiles as Sherlock’s eyes light up at the prospect, and she takes one of his small hands into her own.

Her fingers brush the palm of his hand, tracing along the love line of his hand. “Round and round the garden,” Softly, her fingers outline a circle on the palm of his hand, drawing along the lifeline of his palm. “Like a teddy bear.”

Her fingers slide down the skin of his arm, fingernails brushing against skin. “One step,” She pauses, finger nails gliding further up his arm, smiling at the smile that worms its way onto Sherlock’s face – as her son knows what’s coming and can’t help but smile. “Two step,”

“Tickle you under there!” She cries out the last words, her fingers moving fast to Sherlock’s armpits, vigorously tickling her son. His lips widen in a gorgeous laugh that bounces off the walls as he squirms under her touch, desperate to get away, but laughing all the same.

She tickles him until he’s wheezing for breath, his cheeks rosy from cackling, and his eyes watering with tears of laughter. Then Mrs. Holmes ceases her assault and draws Sherlock close to her chest, hugging him tightly. His arms wrap around her, giving her a gentle squeeze before pushing away, rolling his eyes and squirming to get off her lap like all little boys do when they feel too molly coddled.

Sherlock pushes his way off of his Mummy’s lap, straightening himself and regaining his dignity after the session of laughing. But Mrs. Holmes sees a bit of a brighter look in his eyes, and that’s all she needs.

“How about some milk and cookies honey? We won’t have to tell Mycroft at all.” She gets off her seat, stepping down onto the floor and walking back over to the oven, picking up her oven mitts. Sherlock’s eyes gleam and he follows her eagerly. “Can we hunt for bugs in the backyard after? I got a book at school today about insects and I want to see what kind we have around here.”

Mrs. Holmes chuckles, opening the oven door and releasing a blast of warmth and chocolate that swarms the kitchen, wrapping its two occupants in a blanket of comfort – a place to feel safe and at home. “We can do anything you like honey.” 


End file.
